Death Returns from Holiday

This poem was influenced, not so much by Meet Joe Black as
by the earlier film Death Takes a Holiday (1934). In this
version of the story, Death tires of his job and decides
to woo the daughter of a millionaire (played by Frederic March).
While he is "on holiday" people stop dying. The terminally ill,
those horribly maimed by accidents, all continue to suffer
because they are unable to die.
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Death Returns from Holiday

        "... Nothing ever felt this good."
Marie Howe's "Death, the Last Visit"
       

I find you and you wrap your fleshy thighs
        Around my torso,
Spinning I send you around the emptiness of your room.

I'm sorry I was late, but you understand--
        Your open mouth beckons for it
The saltiest of any salty cock you've ever had.

Now that I have you, I won't ever leave,
        Even after that bitchy smell
Fills the air with that aroma which is only you.

I take you the way you always hated it
        Doggie-style, like Cerberus--three-headed,
Triphallic; and I'm lucky you're a three input kind of gal.

My tongue pries open your mouth, your tongue swells
        With lust at my insistence
Feeding my advance with your sweetest breath.

You thought no man could ever reach this deep inside--
        No man can touch your heart the way I do
Perhaps dislodge a kidney, pierce a lung or two.

A sour nipple explodes at the nearness of my touch
        Your arm twitches with residual delight
Stray neurons firing like that one last, best orgasm of the night.

There's something about that glisten in your eye that says,
        "God, forgive me." But you know I always do,
Then, thick lips pressed to your ovule mouth, I say:

        "I love you....
I'm sorry I was late. Did I make it up to you?"
        I hope so, because forever after,
A corpse, three days dead, is all that's left of you.

The Errors of Poetry

I wrote this poem after reading T.R. Hummer's "Where you go when she sleeps"

I found his poem to be deeply offensive, and I wrote this in the white heat of anger...
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The Errors of Poetry

    "... whatever vacuum you were in before"
    T.R. Hummer's "Where you go when she sleeps"


What does it mean when you walk into the living room
    and see a guy sitting on your couch,
        his hand cradling a woman's head against his lap?

What is it with this guy?
What is it about her face in his crotch,
    that makes him think about oats being sucked out of a silo?
Why is it that all things golden,
    even "the deep rush of the grain"
        remind him of death,
    or his last, best orgasm while drunk on pure-grain alcohol
        or high on Panama Gold?

Is it her golden hair, tinted black at the roots?
Is it the tattoo of their golden retriever
    inked with brown henna on her shoulder blade?
Is it the golden ring, piercing her lower lip, which brings
    to mind that time she took his yellow Beemer
        and crashed it into the lake
(and how--inspired by his name--she made it up to him later)?
Or is it the "vacuum you were in before" that great emptiness
    deep within her golden skin--her mind, like Yorick's,
        which begs over and over to be filled.

How much depends on rendering into verse
    the corpse of some forgotten farmer's son
        lost in a silo full of oats?

And why does this poem remind me of Eric Clapton,
    or anyone who's ever written a poem about a guardian angel?

        I don't know--you tell me.

The Executioner of Academe

This poem first appeared in American Dissident.
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The Executioner of Academe

        "... It overtook him finally"
        Donald Justice's "In Memory of the Unknown Poet"


I am his story
I will always be his story
The brute boot put against his face--

This nameless poet, scrambling to find a place
Of tenure, or a sinecure, or a post
Where safely he can sit and think
And maybe write diacriticals or deconstructive verse.

I stalked him, I overtook him finally
in the hallways of The Academe, before he took his orals.
"Who is the victim today," I say
Within earshot of his trembling lip, his hairless chin.

My partners in this crime,
Professors of Medieval lit and the Metaphysicals,
Deferred to me--his executioner--the Modernist
As the most nearly able to judge the body of his work.

But I had already judged, found wanting this black-bespeckled bird,
And I was first to place my soft-leather boot in that face
And shove him back down the snake&ladder chute.
Aware (he was) now finally of the boredom and the horror....

Perhaps in the end he was not sad
Even in that moment when the oxford leather struck his face.
That was his story anyway, or it became his story
Of how he (narrowly) escaped the boredom and the horror.

When lately I have seen him wandering
From his job as cappuccino cashier to Wal-mart greeter,
I think back on that day, and it gives me cheer
For I had become the boredom and the horror.

It is all done now, but I can still remember
His effeminate voice, his one unfocused eye as it straggled
Limply along the text of his great masterwork,
His fading voice now no longer filled with poetry.

It is all now the horror and the horror.

I Wag This Dog

I Wag this Dog

        "...it can tell a dull story."
       William Matthews' "Pissing off the Back
        of the Boat into the Nivernais Canal"

Iamb
the measure of all man
iamb, iamb
the measure of all man.

See me stand, see me stand,
Master of all the Land,
Primogenitor of Poetry,
pissing in the proverbial wind,
Primal Source of sloppy verse
(ooops I wet myself again)....
The only thinking part of man.

Iamb the Pater Familias
"Do you have Prince Albert in a can?"
"Sure we do."
"Then let him out!"
Iamb the creative source of every dog-leg joke that ever was
and the lusty source of every child that has
your eyes, your chin, your smile.

Iamb poetry, Iamb music, Iamb philosophy:

What is good?
Good is that day at work, when you see the end of it
and know you did your part (almost) pretty-good.
Good is the coldest beer in your hand, the biggest fish
in your net, and your friend's big boat slowly
heading back to a dock he pays the rent for.
Good is milking your neighbor's cow through the fence,
with the sun just come up, the cool breeze in your face,
and holding something warm&wet in your hand.

What is evil?
Evil is following that gal home, whose big behind
attracts you like the divining rod of lust.
Evil is fighting that guy that you can't beat,
even with a 2x4 and a good first shot
in his huge, ugly mush
--or, worse yet, watching him sitting on your favorite bar stool
and buying drinks for that woman whose soul is
beat down with the biggest ugly stick there ever was.

But truly the greatest evil of all
is the Frankenstein monster that sneaks up behind you
--so you don't see it comin'--
it creeps up behind us like a malignant prostate tumor.

And even when your daddy died, his brothers
stood in line and shook hands with every other
(as I did in my imagination)
for I knew them all. I knew these old men and they knew me--
they had the smell of cancer on them
or was it dried urine? I think I know what cancer smells like.
And when the prostate dies, the rest of us will follow
very soon. For (in your mind) I am that flag
flown at half-mast to symbolize
the flacid final death which comes, too soon, for us all.

And what is Heaven?
Heaven is you at a Green Bay Packer football game
in December, with no shirt, your chest painted green and yellow,
in -10 degree weather and the beer in your plastic
cup with a frozen head of foam....

Hell is me there with you, colder'n the head of an eskimo's tool.

Dead Drunks in the Bar

Dead Drunks in the Bar of a Bowling Alley in Milwaukee

        “Only its head was smashed."
        Molly Peacock's "The Lull"


The drunk guy laid out on the bar--
We thought, hey, he can't drink no more,
His head stunk, pass'd out and dead--Can't
Leave, can't go, even to the head

An' throw up that dog that bit him.
Me, face down the toilet, hangin' rim,
"Bowl!" they said to me, glaz'd over,
But instead I went to see Old Ben Dover:

Big white pock-marks on Whitey's skin,
Big rat nose on a li'l rat chin,
Big fat tail planted on a stool,
Big rat jewels on a li'l rat tool.

I knew him once when he was a charmer
Now I'd rather do lunch with Jeff Dahmer.

The Love Song of Tupac Shakur

_____________________________________________

The Love Song of Tupac Shakur
Or "Die, Princess, Die!"

  "No matter where I go, I see the same hoe."
       2pac Shakur's "All Bout U"

I know U mo than that, it's a fact
compassion ain't for me, U can see
I'm just a Thug nigga, in love, with the white bitch
on the t.v., jus dyin' for a li'l love from me.
No matter where i turn, there she is
gettin' her ass played by the white man.
In the Palace, U is just a joke,
torn apart by the lies, now U go
spread your thighs for a white bloke,
charlie the tuna, prince chicken-o-the-sea --
The way i see, you belong to me, so let's go
knock booties, down by the pitcher show.

[voice over]
    "Mr. Doggie-S ...."
      Listen to the ray-de-o, watch'n the news vid-e-o
      everything they show, is just some dead hoe.
      Talkin' to the people i meet, jus' goin' down the street
      all they can say, is how did she die that day?

Tears bring truth, even when i cry, i hear your "candle
in the wind" sung by that English guy.
Tear apart the lies,
    spread Ur grace,
    on my face;
They say you was easy, like Aunt Luweezee,
But you was never sleezy, not one of them groupie hoes
Waitin' round at the end of my show.
I just saw you on the t.v., workin' your charitie
hope you find some time to come by and see me,
down by the Bay, jus' livin' and dyin' in L.A.

  [voice over]
  "Mr. Doggie-S ...."
  Listen to the ray-de-o, watch'n the news vid-e-o
  everything they show, is just the same ol' dead hoes.
  Talkin' to the people i meet, jus' goin' down the street
  all they can say, is why did she die that way?

  [voice over]
  "Outlaw Kenny-G ...."
  I can see you ain't eatin'... Is U sick. I hear you
  throw up, and then eat, then throw up
  U sure one fucked-up white chick
  Is U sick? ... No? ... Well suck my sick ....
  Yeah! You go girl! You go! You sho got a bad case of the Negrophilia....

[speaking over the last two lines]
It's yo thang, do watcha wanna do,
headin' for the bathroom, 'bout to toss it up.
Give it up for free, on the t.v., or move it to the street corner
Watch some old fag queen get a boner
like U is one o' his skinny little boy-toys.
But U an' me, we see, reality.
I guess it's hard, even harder for U
wid two baby boys, an the queen holdin' out on you.
Charlie did it sweet & smooth, plottin' and a gamin' U.
Got a dinner date, wid some A-rab rich boy,
Got your legs up, lookin' for some love.
U shoulda seen me in the first case, in the first place.

  [voice over]
  "Mr. Doggie S. ...."
  Listen to the ray-de-o, watch'n a news vid-e-o
  everything they show, is just the same ol' dead hoes.
  Talkin' to the people i meet, jus' goin' down the street
  all they need to know, is he's in love wid a dead hoe.

  [voice over]
  "Outlaw Kenny-G ...."
  I saw this old scrany Indian hoe on the t.v., she was dead too
  jus' like the princess. Said her name was Mother T., she was into
  charitee, just like the princess, a workin' down Calcutta way.
  I saw her on the t.v. in Haiti, with ol' Duvalier, collectin'
  40 thou, then I saws her with that dictator Ceaunescu, collectin'
  60 thou, then I saws her with ol' Slobbodaddy Milosodick, collectin' 
  80 thou! And I says to myself  "Man, that scrawny old
  hoe sho can peddler her ass! I'd like to be her Pimp-Daddy."
  But hey, man, pimpin' aint easy! I might have to knock boots wid some ol' biddy.

In the church, i touch Ur coffin,
See i love ya, love ya like my own, but you died
and left me all alone. You died too quick, and i guess
that's why they call you Princess Die.
But even now, you an' me, i can see us in Eternity....
Heaven ain't hard to find in a hearse, Princess.
See me naked, sweaty, poundin' yo' skin
when i bend U over, i'll fukU from Windsor to Woodlawn cemetary--
Me & U hollerin my name out (if U could).
I know U like straight sex, but
even for a white girl you barely move your ass....
Holy shit! Sir Johnny's got his gun!
[sounds: pop pop pop ... screams ... ambulance siren]

[voice from the clouds:]
"Only God can judge me. Only God can judge me. Only God can judge me...."

Here I am, heaven's not hard
Heaven's not hard to find.... Where's the princess?
Outta my way, mutherfuckers! I'm a straight Thug nigga on a mission!
Hey Princess, can i hit it...?
  Wait a minute.... U ain't the Princess....
Holy Jeezus! Some crazy old Indian nun dun got me!
Help! Sumbuddy get this ol' tarbaby offn' me....

[later, the voice drifting away]
...Hey there, Mr Jeezus! Where can i get some reincarnation?

......Is that on Lexington Avenue, ... near Briarpatch Lane?

Leda & the Swain

This poem first appeared in Lee Thorne's poetry newsletter, Fuck!
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Leda and the Swain

        "... and grew truly swan within her womb."
        "Leda" Rainer Maria Rilke


When the brute beast came into the room
        Wearing a swan's-down suit, just like a second skin,
        She saw him and knew him for what he was
        King of the Gods (in his own mind anyway)
        Master of all things great and small
        King of Beasts,
        Lord of Olympus!

And when she followed him into the empty bedroom,
Did she know then what powder he put on,
Smelling of Johnson's baby talc and Old Spice,
Before he would try to put it in her once or thrice?

Did she see it coming? Who can say?
        Did that brute beast of the air
        Fill her with regrets, among other things?
        Or did she drop all pretense in his Presence?
        Did she foresee what he predestined and foresaw?

Her hands caress the knape of this sweet Bill
Pressing along the length of his swell thunder-bolt
Delightful digits shaping the force that was to come
Charging like Greek seamen against the walls of Troy
Rendering the Trojan horse useless through her pre-partum foreplay

She saw it coming, just like last time,
        She saw it--the one eyed monster--and knew it for what it was
        And like the goose that laid the golden eggs
        Her vocal-box encompassed him, in all his glory,
        Rendering unto Caesar
            (Bill Caesar, I think he said his name was)
        All that was his (at least for the purposes of this story).

He thought he knew then what went wrong--
If he had come then as a dove or chicken
Pehaps a hawk or vulture, or a pidgeon
Things would have worked out better, but with a neck so long
He was certain to get goosed, ... and so she left him all undone.

The walls of some far future Troy will stand
        And some far-flung Greeks will stay at home
        Embarking, instead, on some electronic voyage
        Where blood is not spilled, and Priam keeps his crown,
        And Agamemnon takes his Saturday bath in peace
While his wife scrubs his back in that place where he can't reach.